9. The Queens Wrath
~ GEMINI~
I'm storming through the courtyard, everyone watching in confusion as I'm far ahead of the men towing behind me.
The heels of my shoes strike the cobblestone with deliberate force, each impact sending sharp echoes across the open space.
Students scatter from my path like startled birds, their conversations dying mid-sentence as they register the murderous intent radiating from my every movement.
They know I'm not angry at them. Oh no. I'm furious at the news that Matteo, my Bunny Stalker who's been my protector on so many levels, is now somewhere on Leighton soil, in a place I need to discover in a short period of time or else he's rid of.
Terminated.
The mere thought sends another wave of rage coursing through my body, hot and electric.
My fists are shaking just thinking about it, nails digging crescents into my palms deep enough to threaten blood. And that's probably better than how I almost broke the windshield of the car on our way here out of anger.
The memory flashes vividly in my mind—my hand slamming against the glass, the spider-web of cracks that formed beneath my palm, Zander's steady grip pulling me back before I could strike again.
Ren had whispered something about replacing the car being cheaper than replacing my hand, but the joke fell flat against the suffocating tension in the vehicle.
Even he knew better than to push further when my eyes met his in the rearview mirror.
It's crazy how tense situations pull out the worst in you, but this is far more different than that. This isn't just anger—this is existential fury, the kind that burns cold rather than hot, that crystallizes thought rather than clouding it.
This is the rage of a Queen realizing her King has been taken from the board while she wasn't looking.
I feel robbed.
As if we've gone through all these challenges, just to be at the risk of failing because I haven't "given up" like other Maidens have. The unfairness of it claws at my insides, makes my vision sharpen with predatory focus.
Every challenge overcome, every near-death experience survived, every careful alliance forged—all potentially meaningless if I can't find Matteo in time.
It doesn't help that I can't remember who Domino is, aside from him being related to Matteo because they look alike.
That's the least of my concerns right now, though from the brief summarized version of our complicated past, maybe it's good I've forgotten his existence because I don't need distractions right now. I need revenge, starting with demanding my man, my Ruthless King, to be given back to me by any means necessary.
The silver bracelet on my wrist catches the midday sun, flashing like a signal. Knifey rests in its hidden sheath against my thigh, a comforting weight beneath the pleated skirt of the Leighton uniform I've donned for our return.
The familiar fabric feels strange against my skin after days in looser clothing, the structured lines of the blazer simultaneously constraining and armor-like.
Students whisper as I pass, their voices a soft susurration like wind through autumn leaves.
I catch fragments?—
"...was shot..."
"...disappeared for weeks..."
"...looks different somehow..."
The words wash over me without impact. Allow them to speculate. Their opinions mean nothing compared to the urgent mission pulsing through my veins.
I'm almost at the main building when someone gets in my way.
Amara from the Elwing Empire, that cunt from the courtyard from our last confrontation.
Her mere presence has people pausing in their conversations to look her way, some in fear, others in curiosity, knowing she's probably gonna make a display of some kind like last time.
She stands with calculated casualness, hip-cocked, perfectly manicured hand resting on the curve of her waist. Her uniform—more expensive than standard issue, tailored to hug her curves in ways that push the boundaries of the dress code without quite violating them—marks her as someone accustomed to bending rules.
Her smile is sharp as a blade, her eyes cold despite the warmth she pretends to project.
"Well, well," she calls, voice carrying across the suddenly hushed courtyard. "Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. We thought you'd transferred...or worse."
She raises her arm, which has that familiar metallic weapon in her grasp, and I know from one look that it isn't a toy gun this time around.
The sun glints off polished steel, the barrel looking impossibly black and final as it points in my direction. A few people curse, while some girls scream to take cover, but my strides are still going, nothing has slowed down.
I can feel my Kings' presence behind me — the shift in their collective energy as they register the threat, the subtle rearrangement as they move to more strategic positions. I don't turn to look, don't need visual confirmation of their readiness.
That's the beauty of what we've become — extensions of each other, operating with instinctive coordination that requires no verbal communication.
"C'mon, don't try to act like you're blind. This isn't a gun!"
She tries to sweetly state, her voice carrying that particular cadence of someone who believes their audience is stupid enough to be convinced by transparent lies. The weapon in her hand clearly indicates otherwise, its deadly purpose undeniable despite her words.
I hear someone curse behind me, which I can only assume is Domino because I can't recognize his voice by instinct. His words carry an urgency that doesn't penetrate my single-minded focus.
"Wait, Eva!"
I don't wait.
I don't even slow down.
My strides maintain their relentless rhythm, each step carrying me closer to the obstacle that dares stand between me and finding Matteo.
I've survived bullets and poison, endured emotional manipulation and gaslighting, overcome attempted murder, and the cruelty of memory loss. This girl with her gun and misplaced confidence is nothing but a momentary inconvenience.
"If you give me Domino, I won't shoot you u?—"
I don't even wait for her to finish, my hand retrieving my weapon of choice before it glides through the air and pierces into her hand, causing her to scream as she drops the gun that goes off.
The throw is perfect—fluid and precise; the blade embeds itself directly through her palm, pinning her hand with the gun in a single devastating motion. Time seems to slow as her fingers spasm, the weapon discharging as it falls.
Screams ignite all around us, the sound wave rippling outward from the center of violence we've created together.
I feel the slice of a bullet grace upward along my cheek, its path close enough to burn across my skin without penetrating flesh.
The projectile continues its trajectory upward, hitting a bird that shrieks and falls to its demise, a small puff of feathers marking its final moment before it plummets to the courtyard stones.
Blood trickles warm down my cheek, but I'm still walking toward the bitch who's screaming hysterically while the blade is pierced through her hand.
I could care less.
Her pain is irrelevant, her terror meaningless in the face of the cold purpose driving me forward. The courtyard seems to be frozen around us, students pressing themselves against walls or diving behind benches, creating a perfect open stage for the drama unfolding.
By the time she lifts her head up, I'm in her face, grabbing the hand with the knife and moving in close with eyes that show no emotion.
I watch how her eyes dilate massively, pupils expanding in primal fear as she looks at me like I'm her worst nightmare.
And maybe I am.
"You want Domino? He's all yours. I don't remember the fucker anyways," I say loud and clear as if making a verbal announcement to the entire courtyard. The words emerge crystal-clear, each syllable perfectly enunciated to ensure maximum impact.
I lean in closer, close enough that only she can hear my next words, close enough that my breath disturbs the perfectly styled baby hairs at her temple.
She smells of expensive perfume and fear-sweat, the combination oddly satisfying as I watch her composure crumble entirely.
"But if you ever get in my way, I'll enjoy pulling out my pink gun and shooting your brains out!"
She wants to speak back, I can tell from how she opens her mouth, rehearsed vitriol ready on her tongue, but a scream escapes her as I pull the blade out.
The sudden extraction sends a fresh spray of crimson across the pristine white of her blouse, the contrast vivid and artistic against the fabric. I thank Knifey for its service in my mind before I toss Amara to the ground.
She cries out, looking up at me like I'm some sort of villain, and maybe I am in this cynical moment, knowing everyone is watching, taking photos, and videos of this interaction.
Her perfect image is shattered now — designer uniform ruined, hand mangled, dignity in tatters as she sprawls inelegantly at my feet. Tears cut through her expertly applied makeup, leaving trails of mascara that transform her from enviable beauty to cautionary tale.
I think how vital this moment is, with the emphasis I don't recall Domino, but I want to paint a different message.
To prove I've lost my fucking marbles. To show everyone watching—students, faculty, and whoever else might be monitoring this display—that the Ruthless Queen has fully embraced the ruthless part of her title.
That I can no longer be controlled by social expectations or manipulated through conventional means.
I am entirely willing to burn Leighton to the ground if that's what it takes to get Matteo back.
My lips curl as the idea pops into my mind, and I move the blade to my mouth before I slowly lick the blood off the slick side, leaving the courtyard speechless while I grin sinisterly.
The metallic taste floods my mouth, copper-bright and vital. I make sure the performance is thorough—tongue flat against the blade, eyes half-lidded in mock ecstasy, movements slow enough to ensure every phone camera captures the moment in perfect clarity.
"You orchestrated this grand collaboration, and dare act normal when the man that's precious to me is being held away from me? His Ruthless Queen?" I giggle manically, the sound high and unhinged as it echoes across the stunned courtyard.
My eyes narrow while I twirl Knifey between my fingers like it can slice a finger off with one wrong miss.
The blade catches sunlight as it moves, flashing silver and crimson in hypnotic patterns. The display is both threat and promise— evidence of skill honed to perfection and willingness to deploy it without hesitation.
"Whoever takes what's rightfully mine gets to enjoy the stabbing consequences." I point the blade at her and grin, the expression all teeth and no warmth. "So don't get in my way again, or this blade will be going through your throat, and I'll gladly parade with your head hanging by the threads of your ugly hair."
With that, I look back at my Kings, waiting to see their eyes and expressions of disgust, but all of them are surprisingly neutral, even Domino which doesn't seem very impactful to me anyway.
There's no shock in their gazes, no horror at my display of savagery. Instead, I see understanding, acceptance—perhaps even approval.
Zander watches with that particular intensity that always makes my skin prickle, his forest-green eyes tracking my every movement like a predator memorizing prey. But there's pride there too, satisfaction at witnessing the Queen he's helped shape embracing her power so completely.
Ares stands slightly apart, his usual perfect posture somehow more rigid, tension evident in the set of his shoulders. But his expression remains carefully neutral, giving nothing away to the observers surely analyzing every reaction.
Marcus studies the scene with a devious grin, cataloging reactions and implications with the same precision he applies to his medical research. His eyes flick briefly to the wound on my cheek, assessing damage and probable treatment with a single glance, a habit he surely can’t help.
Ren lounges with deceptive casualness, his posture suggesting boredom while his eyes miss nothing. The slight curve of his lips might be amusement or appreciation—perhaps both.
Warren stands protectively close, his body angled slightly toward me in a position that would allow him to intervene instantly if needed. His expression carries understanding that borders on encouragement, recognizing the strategy beneath what others might dismiss as mere brutality.
And Domino — the brother whose face bears such striking resemblance to my missing King—watches with an expression I can't quite interpret, something complex passing behind eyes that should be familiar but aren't, at least not in my fragmented memory.
My eyes land on Hannah and I smile, the expression softening slightly for the one woman who's stood by my side through so much of this twisted journey.
"Hannah, with me please."
She nods, sporting a Leighton uniform like me, my right-hand woman until she can return to her duty at Matteo's side. Her expression betrays nothing, professional mask firmly in place despite the chaos we've just unleashed.
We understand each other, Hannah and I, recognize the necessity of calculated violence in a world that respects nothing less.
I look to the men.
"I have business to attend to. I'll meet you guys later." The dismissal is casual but absolute, my tone allowing no room for argument despite its light delivery.
I don't wait for them to answer, turning away and heading to the stairs, each step seemingly echoing in the silent courtyard that's now haunted by my lost sanity.
The crowd parts before me like water, no one daring to maintain eye contact for more than a second. Fear has a particular scent—acrid and animal—and it permeates the air around me as I walk, each stride purposeful and unhurried.
The wound on my cheek stings, blood tracing a delicate line down to my jaw, but I make no move to wipe it away.
Hannah falls into step beside me, her pace matching mine precisely. She walks with the controlled grace of someone accustomed to navigating dangerous situations, to maintaining composure when others crumble.
I catch the subtle shift in her posture as we leave the Kings behind—the almost imperceptible straightening of her spine, the fractional increase in alertness that acknowledges we are now operating without their physical protection.
We reach the main building's imposing entrance, the heavy oak doors standing open as if in expectation of our arrival.
The cool air inside washes over my heated skin, the sudden temperature change making the cut on my face sting anew. The familiar scent of Leighton surrounds us—old books and polished wood, the subtle undertones of expensive perfumes and colognes worn by those wealthy enough to attend.
Students in the entrance hall freeze as we enter, conversations cutting off mid-sentence.
Their eyes track our progress, some widening in recognition, others narrowing in calculation as they assess what our return might mean for the delicate power dynamics of the university.
News travels fast at Leighton, and our performance in the courtyard will already be spreading through text messages and social media posts, mutating and growing with each retelling.
I head directly for the grand staircase, my target clear in my mind. The marble steps gleam beneath the ornate chandeliers, generations of privilege and tradition made tangible in stone and light.
My footsteps sound different here—sharper, more definitive against the hard surface after the duller impacts of the courtyard stones.
As we climb, Hannah leans closer, her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
"You're bleeding."
"It's nothing," I respond, not breaking stride. "Barely a scratch."
"It might scar," she observes, no judgment in her tone, merely stating a fact.
I smile, the expression feeling sharp on my face. "Good. Let it. A reminder of what I'm willing to sacrifice to get him back."
She nods once, understanding perfectly as she always does. This is what makes Hannah invaluable—her ability to accept without question, to adapt without complaint, to see the strategy behind actions others might dismiss as impulsive or emotional.
We reach the second-floor landing, turning automatically toward the administrative wing.
The corridors here are wider, the ceilings higher, the décor more restrained in its display of wealth. This is where the true power of Leighton resides — not in the ostentatious gathering spaces designed to impress donors and parents, but in these sober corridors where decisions affecting generations of students are made without fanfare or oversight.
"We'll need to clean that before we meet with him," Hannah says as we approach our destination, her voice still perfectly calm despite the urgency underpinning our mission. "Blood makes men like him nervous. Reminds them of their mortality."
I laugh, the sound echoing against the oak-paneled walls.
"Perhaps that's exactly what we want—him nervous, off-balance, reminded that his position doesn't make him untouchable."
"Or perhaps," she counters smoothly, "we want him comfortable, confident, willing to share information he might withhold if he feels threatened."
I consider this as we pause before a heavy door marked with a discreet brass nameplate: HEADMASTER WINCHESTER.
Hannah's right, of course.
As satisfying as it might be to stride in with blood still fresh on my face, the strategic approach requires different tactics.
"Fine," I concede, stepping aside to let her remove a small packet of tissues from her bag. "Clean it. But don't remove all the evidence—I want him to see that I've been marked but not defeated."
She works quickly, efficiently, dabbing away the worst of the blood without disturbing the thin line of the wound itself.
Her touch is gentle but clinical, reminding me of the countless times she's performed similar services for Matteo over the years. The thought creates a hollow ache in my chest, sharpening my resolve further.
I will find you, Matteo. Whatever it takes.
When Hannah finishes, she gives me a brief nod of approval. "Perfect. Visible but not distracting. It should serve your purpose well."
I straighten my blazer, adjust the silver bracelet at my wrist, and run a hand through my shortened hair.
The asymmetrical cut feels right under my fingers, another visible reminder of how much has changed since I first walked these halls. I am not the same Evangeline who arrived at Leighton with na?ve determination and carefully buried trauma.
I am transformed — forged in blood and betrayal, tempered by near-death and unwavering loyalty.
I am the Ruthless Queen now, in truth as well as title. I’ll just have to prove that to those who matter.
To those who will make the final decision in this brutal mascarade of power.
Beside me, Hannah's posture shifts subtly as she prepares for what comes next. I know without asking that she has already calculated multiple approaches for this conversation, anticipated various reactions from the Headmaster, and prepared contingencies for success and failure alike.
Her mind works like Matteo's in that way — always three steps ahead, always seeing the chessboard in its entirety while others focus on individual pieces.
"Any last advice?" I ask, hand poised to knock on the imposing door.
Hannah's eyes meet mine, something fierce and loyal burning beneath her professional exterior.
"Remember who has the true power in this conversation. It isn't him, regardless of his title or position."
I smile, genuine this time despite the circumstances.
"I never forget that these days."
With that, I knock firmly on the Headmaster's door, already planning the opening moves of a game I cannot afford to lose.
The sound echoes with finality, three sharp reports that announce my presence and my intentions with equal clarity.
It's time to claim what's heartfully mine.
Starting with talking to the one who can get me access to what I need.